Thomas Greanias - The 34th Degree

“You can believe what you want about the Maranatha text,” she told him firmly, glaring at him. “But the mysteries of life can’t be reduced to numbers. And even if you could see the future, without love, you’re nothing.”

“Did you say ‘love’?” He looked at her and wanted to tell her she looked lovely when she was angry. “What are you driving at?”

“It was your fascination with futile speculations that got us into this mess,” she said, setting her glass on the table. “But it will be Andros and his love for Aphrodite that will get us out.”

“Is that so?” He flashed a conspiratorial grin. “According to what Dulles says in Bern, it was Andros’s performance in bed with a Nazi spy that’s gotten him this far.”

The sting of disappointment was plain on Erin Whyte’s face, and Prestwick took perverse delight in it.

“Did you train him for that, Captain?” he taunted her, pressing himself against her supple body. “Do you want to train me?”

“I taught him a lot of things,” Erin replied calmly, “the last of which I’ll show you first.”

A tremendous explosion of pain erupted between Prestwick’s legs. His face pinched in a grimace before his jaw dropped in a low groan.

Then Erin removed her knee from his groin, smiled, and sipped her champagne.

A s the Independence moved into the great harbor, Andros could feel himself trembling with excitement. Here was Athens, the ancient capital of Western civilization. Here was home. He beheld the whitewashed city in wonder. The last time he’d felt such a sensation was on his first visit to America, when the ocean liner entered New York Harbor and he saw the Statue of Liberty.

Rising above the city was the Acropolis, and on top of it the pillars of the Parthenon stood proudly against the clear blue sky. The symbol of democracy, though desecrated by the Nazi flag flying overhead, still inspired hope for freedom. The sacred sight aroused in Andros the same pride and devotion he felt for the American flag. If Western civilization had a moral compass, his grandfather used to say, this was its true north.

Andros felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Tsatsos, who said, “Did you think the Parthenon would be gone when you came back?”

“To tell you the truth, I wasn’t sure.”

The old captain laughed. “And I tell you, it will still be standing long after these barbarians are gone.”

The Independence dropped anchor, and the foul stench of defeat and occupation settled in. The Luftwaffe had bombed Piraeus more extensively than Andros had heard. As he surveyed the damage, he felt a surge of outrage.

“The German Stukas bombed the ports and ships, both war and merchant, as we were evacuating British troops to Crete,” said Tsatsos. “Now it is the British RAF who raid the surrounding airfields and our ships.”

The sober realization hit Andros that this was the last sight his father had had of the Greek mainland before he died. The memory of his father made him once again painfully aware that his own return to Greece wasn’t at all what he’d been expecting. He was not in military uniform, disembarking from a troop transport. Rather, he was on his own family ship and dressed in civilian clothes. One man against the Third Reich.

And a powerful Reich it was. Patrolling the docks were SS guards toting Schmeissers. Rolls of barbed wire topped a concrete wall to shield the cargo ship as it sat at the water’s edge.

Andros eyed the SS men as the gangway was lowered. “Baron von Berg’s men?”

“They protect the transfer of his special shipments,” Tsatsos said. “I see you are considered one of them.”

As Tsatsos spoke, three black Mercedeses pulled up along the quay. Two men in black hats and overcoats stepped out of the first car.

“For me?” Andros asked.

“Gestapo,” said Tsatsos, troubled. “They must be expecting you. Karapis, help our friend the diplomat with his luggage.”

First Mate Karapis appeared with the trunk, which, like Andros, had survived the rigors of OSS training, a parachute drop into Switzerland, and the long journey to Athens.

Tsatsos glanced at the trunk and then fixed his dark, brooding eyes on Andros for a moment. “I don’t know why you’ve chosen to come back, Christos,” he said, his strong, rough hand gripping the scruff of Andros’s neck. “But I must warn you to beware the kisses of an enemy, especially when you are among old friends.”

“I take that to mean you harbor little love in your heart for collaborators?”

Tsatsos smiled broadly enough to reveal a few missing teeth. It was a menacing smile that required no explanation.

“Don’t worry, old friend,” said Andros as they parted. “Things aren’t always as they seem.”

He started down the gangway, Karapis and the trunk close behind. As soon as they reached the quay, the Gestapo agents relieved Karapis of the trunk and escorted Andros to the middle Mercedes. The driver got out and opened the rear door for him, and Andros heard a voice address him in coarse, ugly English.

“Welcome to Athens, Herr Andros. Please, climb in.”

A ndros got in and found himself sitting next to a young man not much older than he was. The man’s smooth, pale features and almost white hair contrasted sharply with his dark suit. For a moment Andros thought his narrow eyes seemed to change color in the darkness of the cab, shifting from blue to gray to brown and then back to blue.

“Allow me to introduce myself, Herr Andros.” His tone was oily. “My name is Werner. Jurgen Werner. I am an emissary of Baron Ludwig von Berg, your host. I am your escort to your family estate in Kifissia.”

Werner extended his cold, clammy hand, and when Andros clasped it, a shiver raced up his arm. If this Werner was the kind of henchman von Berg surrounded himself with, Andros wondered what the Baron himself was like.

Then the door shut next to him, and the Mercedes started moving. “I wasn’t expecting such a grand reception,” Andros said.

“For your own protection, I assure you,” Werner replied. “The Communists, they are everywhere, especially on the docks.”

Andros glanced back at the shrinking port and could see Tsatsos and Karapis standing at the rail of the Independence, watching the motorcade leave the Piraeus district. Andros felt like he was six years old, returning from another day in Piraeus with his grandfather to the family’s estate in Kifissia and having to endure the city sights in between. Once again he was catching a glimpse of how the majority lived, from the privileged comfort of a mobile observatory.

Athens had changed little since he last saw it six years before, except that it seemed grimier and even more disorganized under the occupation. The walls were littered with RAF slogans, old war posters, and various anti-Nazi graffiti. The Greek war cry, “Aera,” was chalked up everywhere in red and green. It meant “wind,” as in “sweep them away like the wind.”

The spirit of resistance was alive, Andros could see, though the flesh was weak. The back alleys revealed passing glimpses of barefoot children in rags picking through garbage heaps for scraps of food. If they could stay alive just a little longer, Andros thought, just until the liberation…

“I must say, Herr Werner,” Andros observed, “your troops have given new meaning to the ‘ruins of Athens.’”

“The German army did not come to Greece as an enemy but as a friend,” Werner insisted, “to oust the British parasites who had been invited here by the criminal government of the Fourth of August. What you see is the destruction that plagued all of Greece during the British occupation.”

“The British occupation”? thought Andros. Werner did have a way with words.